Although I grew up in a privileged and protected environment in a suburb of Los Angeles, my parents taught me that getting rich was not a virtue. Those simple guidelines helped me find my path.
After a crazy freshmen year in college, I decided for some strange reason to walk over 3,500 miles from Los Angeles to Washington, D.C. on the Great Peace March for Global Nuclear Disarmament. For 10 months, I lived in a tent, sat cross legged on the ground for breakfast, lunch and dinner and somehow managed to stuff all my material goods into two milk crates. In addition to that I walked. I walked away from the comfort of my Southern California home into the windy cold of the springtime Mojave dessert. I walked silently up into the majestic North Face of the Colorado Rockies. I walked mesmerized by the flat monotony of Nebraska, Iowa, Illinois and Indiana. I walked in waves up and down and up and down the Appalachians. I walked as still an innocent 19-year-old boy-man into the streets of Brooklyn and Queens. I walked proudly alongside my father as he accompanied us into the nation’s capital ten months later.
I returned to college into my junior year a changed person.
That year my life took another unexpected and ecstatic turn when I met a German woman with bright blue eyes, deep red lips and an irresistible presence on the dance floor.
Those eyes and that presence brought me to Germany and granted me the greatest treasure one could wish: three amazing children.
Germany hasn’t let go of me since then but my Californian roots do keep tugging away.
I keep repeating that “Homing In” is not autobiographical but I would be lying if I said there wasn’t a lot of me in there.
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